All Through The Night
by Insideimfeelindirty
Summary: AU. April and Jackson meet in the worst way possible and neither can remember a thing. All they know is there was too much tequila to count, brand new tattoos and all they know for sure is that on Monday they start their internship at Mercy West together.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So this was supposed to be a one shot, but spiralled out of control in the first scene, so multi-chapter it is. I have no idea where this is going, I'll admit it, but let's just say stuff happens after and I'm intrigued to see where this goes. Bear with me.**

 **Also, this is AU, April is not terribly religious in this, I'm sticking with her original story as to why she ended up a 28-year old virgin - she wanted it to be special, waited too long, and she's pretty sure boys find her annoying. Oh April, if only you knew...**

 **As usual, I own none of the characters.**

 **Please let me know what you think, ok? I clearly need help.**

* * *

There is always that one stupid mistake that changes everything. You don't always recognise it as you make it, because the epically great decisions and the epically bad ones look exactly the same when you're making them. She moves her head a fraction and the rush of pain that instantly floods her brain tells her that this most definitely falls into the category of epically bad. She clenches her eyes shut trying to block out the daylight that is flooding the room around her. It only makes her head hurt more.

Somewhere outside a siren sounds in the distance, triggering something in her, some vague sense of recognition and then a trepidation she can't place. Her mouth is dry and fuzzy and she knows needs to move, but she doesn't want to risk hurting her head again. She slowly opens her eyes, wincing as the bright daylight burns against her retina and makes her eyes water.

It takes a while for her vision to focus on the ugly, greying ceiling tiles above her, the bare light bulb dangling from a wire and the hint of a cobweb floating gently in the draft. She scrunches her nose at that. She doesn't have cobwebs. She doesn't have ceiling tiles. She has clean white plaster and a cheap and cheerful ceiling light that her oldest sister got her as a moving away present. It takes her brain a few moments to catch up with her eyes, realising with a small, sharp gasp that she is not in her own apartment. Panic sets in, sharpening her senses and letting her really feel the heavy thump of pain in her scull. She searches the thick haze in her mind for an explanation, for a logical conclusion, for any hint as to how, where and why. A soft, deep groan beside her lets her know it's infinitely worse than she first thought.

She turns her head slowly and is met with an expanse of dark, smooth skin and hard muscle and she nearly recoils back. The way her brain slams against the back of her skull and sends sharp pain down her neck forces her to stay in place. Her eyes, though, are free to roam. Her eyes travel down from the shaved, turned head dangerously close to hers, down broad shoulders, defined arms, hard abs and then… Her eyes snap back up quickly, away from his obvious nakedness and vulnerability with the slightest _"oh"_.

A quick fumble with her hands down her own body confirms that she too is entirely naked and entirely uncovered and a deep blush spreads from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Beside her the mattress creaks and shifts as the man next to her rolls over. She lies completely still listening to his breathing until she hears the deep, steady breaths of someone fast asleep. Slowly and carefully she forces her body up to a sitting position, casting a quick glance over to the sleeping form next to her to make sure she hasn't disturbed him. She grits her teeth at the pain, fighting through it to grapple with the more urgent matter of covering herself up. She grabs at the sheet under her, trying to wrap herself up, but _of course_ half of it is under him. She desperately searches the room for any evidence of her own clothing, but comes up empty. In the end, the sudden rise of bile in her throat forces her hand as she violently yanks the sheet from under him whilst rushing towards what she really hopes is the bathroom.

She leans her head against the cool porcelain after she is done purging the contents of her stomach, her physical discomfort fighting her mental discomfort as the tries to piece together the night before. There had been tequila, that much she is sure of. Her stomach churns as she remembers counting them, until she couldn't anymore. She's pretty sure she'd been with a group of people she was supposed to be with, but the reason escapes her right now. She doesn't remember being with a man, definitely not the naked one that is still sleeping on the other side of the thin bathroom door. She certainly doesn't remember getting naked with a man, but that clearly happened because that part is still happening.

She can't help but groan at her own stupidity. She's not a big drinker, but she supposes that explains her present discomfort. She's not one for random hook ups, she's a _virgin_ for God's sake. Or used to be, she guesses, because she can't actually remember. She _was_ a virgin, because she wanted the first time to be special and now she can't even remember loosing her innocence. She sighs deeply, swallowing down another bout of nausea as she scrambles to remember something, another puzzle piece that seems like it should be significant, but it escapes her. Instead she pushes herself off the floor, tightening the sheet around her frame and inspecting her reflection in the mirror. Her mascara has run from her lashes in thick black streaks as if she had been crying, which she also can't remember, and there is pink lipstick smudged around her mouth. She cleans up quickly and as best she can before steeling herself and emerging from the bathroom.

He's still asleep, thankfully, oblivious to her scanning the room for her belongings. She takes in the room, the clutter of dirty dishes by the sink in the kitchenette, the bare walls and the sparse furnishing. There is a sports bag of some sorts in the corner spilling over with clothes. The room is messy and dirty and she can feel her nose crinkling in disgust at the days old pizza boxes and empty beer bottles by the door even as she is desperately searching for clothes to cover her dignity. She finally finds her bright blue bra tossed over the back of the black leather sofa, and her t-shirt partially hidden under it. Her jeans are crumpled up and inside out when she finally locates them on his side of the bed. Her panties are nowhere to be seen, neither are her shoes and handbag. All evidence points to one hell of a night.

She has just managed to clasp her bra around her back when he stirs. She clutches the sheet closely to her chest as she spins around to face him. She is instantly hit with the notion that she knows this man peering back at her through piercing blue eyes, but she still can't place him.

"Hi," he croaks out, scratching his head and frowning as he sits up, no doubt experiencing the same skull slamming headache she woke up with.

"Hey."

She has no follow up except ask him a million questions she's not sure she wants the answers to.

He beats her to it.

"Where am I?"

She looks at him stupefied - surely that is her line?

"At your place. Right?"

She can't hide the slight panic in her voice, and the look of utter confusion on his face does nothing to calm her down.

"At your place you mean," he says without conviction, looking as lost as she feels.

They gape at each other for a moment, both unsure if the other person is playing some sort of weird game. His eyes flicker from her face, to her chest and then realisation flashes like a shock over his face. He glances down his own naked body and her eyes follow his involuntarily. When he looks back up, she spins her head away so fast she thinks she might have to make another dash to the bathroom. He is a flurry of motion suddenly, grabbing a pillow from the bed and jumping up to cover himself. He turns around to make the same journey as she did looking for coverage. She can't help but look as he turns around, and she has to cover her mouth as she gasps loudly.

"What?" he demands, spinning back around and finding her eyes wide and staring at the spot where his ass had just been.

"See something you like?" he attempts, a lopsided smirk not quite matching the bravado of his statement.

"Your ass," she says, like an idiot, because her brain is severely disconnected this morning, and if he didn't have the wrong idea before he definitely does now.

He just stares at her like he can't believe what she just said, and the raised eyebrows and slight frown on his forehead tells her he has no clue how they got here either.

"The tattoo," she rushes to say, pointing a finger wildly in the direction of his pelvis. "It looks new. Like really new."

"What tattoo?" he mumbles, spinning around and craning his neck to look in the direction of her finger.

As he turns she gets a clearer view. Inexplicably it's a waffle. A raw, red and raised tattoo of a waffle. He still can't see it, it's just out of his sightline even as his hand goes to stretch the skin on his right buttock. The way his face scrunches up as his fingers find the raised, irritated skin confirms her theory that the waffle is another casualty of the night before. The absurdity of the situation is finally getting to her, and seeing this naked man clutching a pillow to his crotch and trying to catch a glimpse of his permanently disfigured behind is finally overwhelming her. She can't stop the laughter escaping her mouth, a hysterical high pitched giggle that screams of desperation rather than hilarity.

"What?!" he demands, confusion mixing with a distinct uncertainty in his now shrill voice.

"It's a waffle," she manages, reminding herself that laughing at a naked man has never done anyone any favours.

"That is weird." It's the understatement of a century.

"This is weird," she sighs, meeting his eyes again.

When she moved to Seattle, her small town parents warned her in the way small town parents do about the drugs in the streets, but they never warned her about the ones with blue eyes and a heartbeat. She loses her train of thought for a moment, heat pooling in her stomach, which could either be from those eyes or from the alcohol still rioting inside her.

"I should…" he starts, looking down at the pillow covering his crotch.

"Right, right," she agrees breezily, grabbing her clothes and making a beeline for the bathroom.

Her mind is spinning with questions as she pulls on her t-shirt, every how, where and why still unanswered. She flinches in pain as she pulls her jeans over her ass, her fingers quickly feeling their way down only to discover sore, raised lines on her own right butt cheek. Her blood freezes as she fumbles over what very much feels like a waffle pattern. She storms out of the bathroom, just in time to catch a last glimpse of hard abs and rippling muscle as they disappear beneath a grey hoodie.

"Have I got one too?" she questions insistently as she turns around and pulls her jeans down to reveal her bare ass to this apparent stranger.

"That's definitely… a waffle," he confirms, his voice catching slightly as he surveys her behind.

She groans both in pain and in embarrassment as she pulls her jeans back up.

"So do you have any idea where we are?" she braves, hoping he can shed some light on the many, many firsts that she seems to have made in complete ignorance.

"No… but if this isn't your apartment, and it definitely isn't my apartment, then we should probably get out of here before someone calls the cops on us."

His expression is as confused as ever, brows furrowing as he concentrates on something balled up in his hands.

"I assume these are yours," he mutters, handing her a pair of scrunched up black lace panties. Her black lace panties. "They were in my pocket."

"Oh." The tiny smirk playing on his lips is absolutely mortifying and she wants nothing more than to rip the doors open and run out and away from him. But there is still the question of her shoes and handbag.

"Did we…?" she huffs, giving him a look which can't be misinterpreted.

"I don't know," he admits, sheepishly. "I can't remember."

There is a distinct hint of hot pink around his mouth, the exact shade of lipstick she just wiped off her own face not 10 minutes earlier. She decides not to think about that right now.

"Do you remember _anything_?"

"There was a lot of tequila," he offers, which is just great, because that is the only piece of information she already had. "And you're really excited about Monday."

 _Right. Monday._

"Oh, so you're starting your internship on Monday too?"

 _Of course he is_ , because this is one of those epically bad decisions that will haunt her forever. Sudden realisation as to where she is supposed to know him from flashes over her. The bar. The mixer for the new class of interns. The group of people she is going to spend her next five years with. The tequila. And then nothing.

He nods solemnly and suddenly her headache is back with a vengeance.

"I'm Jackson," he offers, and it rings another bell, but again she can't unscramble her brain enough to place the puzzle piece.

"April."

She attempts a smile, he attempts one back, but it quickly turns into a frown. As awkward as this is, they both know it's going to keep being awkward for the foreseeable future.

"Your bag was under the bed," he says, and it's the only good news she's had this morning. "But I only found one shoe."

She thanks him, puts on her one shoe and hobbles out of the apartment neither of them lives in with him in tow. Outside the daylight is even more punishing and she quickly hails a taxi to make her walk of shame as short as possible. He gives her a quick, awkward wave as the cab pulls away, and she finally lets out the breath she's been holding all morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry sorry, I know... It took me forever to update this but life really got in the way, and then I was in a pretty major post-divorce Japril funk for a while there. But now I have an idea where I want to take this so hopefully the next update won't take me so damn long. Hope a little AU Japril is a light at the end of the tunnel for you, as it is for me.**

 **Please always let me know what you think, ok? I live for your reviews!**

* * *

"I hate him!"

"Hate who?"

Reed's eyes are clenched shut, exhaustion written all over her face.

"Jackson Avery, of course!"

"Of course."

Reed's deep sigh reverberates in the tiny on-call room reserved for the interns, not particularly interested in humouring her in another round of her daily rants.

"I mean he is _such_ a…"

"Grumpus, yes I know, we literally have this same conversation every single day, April."

Reed is squeezing her eyes shut even harder, trying to block her out, deep frown marring her perfect forehead as she burrows deeper into the pillow in the bunk across from her. She doesn't talk about him that often does she? As soon as the thought has entered her head she knows that she does.

"It's just, he is so _rude_ ," she continues, because she can't help herself.

She should be tired, she should be already passed out on her uncomfortable, scratchy blanket, but instead adrenaline is still surging through her. She is on the 21st hour of her overnight shift, she finally has some time to rest, but instead her mind is filled with his stupid, arrogant smirk.

"I mean he talks over me, _all the time_. Today, when we were rounding on Dr Chan's patients, he cut me off right in the middle of a sentence as I was explaining the steps of Mrs Wilson's mitral valve replacement and said exactly the same thing I was going to say. And then _he_ gets picked to scrub in, and you know I've been _dying_ to see a mitral valve replacement, but instead I end up doing scut for Dr Sackler all day instead. And it was my patient! I did all the pre-op tests and the charts and everything! And when I confronted him about it he actually _winked_ at me and just said _'snooze you lose'_!"

"He is the worst," Reed mumbles from her cot, her voice heavy with sleep.

"He just thinks he is entitled to everything, just because he is an Avery, but he isn't even that good, he just winks and flirts with the nurses so they help him with scut, and he does the same to the attendings, male and female, it doesn't even matter. And it works, that's the worst thing! He has this sparkle that he just turns on and all of a sudden everyone is fawning over him!"

"You just don't like the fact that he's seen you naked," Reed remarks, pulling out her trump card, the one that usually shuts this exact conversation down, every time.

"We don't talk about that, remember?"

"Sometimes we do."

Reed's eyes are suddenly open and twinkling, despite the red lining her lashes, a small, knowing smile spreading across her lips.

"Stop it."

"Sometimes we talk about the fact that you've seen him naked," she chuckles lightly, arching an eyebrow at her.

"Go to sleep."

"I'm trying, but you keep jammering on about this guy, who you supposedly hate, yet is the only thing we ever talk about."

A pager goes off then, saving April the task of having to explain to her yet again that this isn't some playground crush she has on the boy who is mean to her, but an actual vitriolic hate for a man who has been nothing but a pain in her ass, quite literally, since the very first time she met him. They both scramble to check their pagers, and it's Reed's deep groan that reveals who's drawn the shortest straw.

"I hate my life," she grumbles, as she drags herself to her feet.

"I just really wish I could un-meet him," April sighs loudly, mostly to herself as Reed leaves.

"Un-meet who?"

His voice is annoyingly familiar and even the light mirth in his tone makes her want to get up and slap the smirk off his face.

"Of course you're here, you are _always here_."

"Aw, what's the matter April, you still sore about earlier?"

There it is, the _sparkle_ , the glittering eyes and the dazzling smile that makes her stomach turn and her blood boil. She glares back at him, jaw clenched and her hands balled into tight fists.

"Unless… is it your ass that is sore? Still? It's been weeks, April, maybe I should take a look at that for you."

He chuckles to himself as he throws himself down on the bunk Reed just vacated, and before she can stop herself she grabs her pillow and throws it at him as hard as she can possibly manage.

"You're an asshole!"

* * *

It's been like this between them since the first day of their internship. It's been like this since she refused to meet his eyes across the empty OR during orientation, since she awkwardly slid past him on the way out of the door on her way home without saying anything. It's been like this since Charles Percy turned up the next morning clutching her missing shoe in his hand like a goddamned trophy, waving it over his head and declaring to the entire locker room that he was looking for his very own Cinderella. When she begrudgingly slid up to him to yank her shoe out of his hand, she heard Jackson laugh and then Charles bellowed _"nice one, Avery"_ before the unmistaken slap of skin against skin in a brotastic high five echoed in her ears as she shuffled out of the room.

He'd tried to talk to her a couple of days later, brows furrowed and the sparkle nowhere in sight. But by then the hospital was already filled with rumours of nurses and residents having succumbed to his charms and she had no time for him.

 _"_ _I didn't tell anyone about what happened, or didn't happen between us,"_ he'd said, eyes wide and Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. She'd taken it to mean he didn't want anyone to know, that she'd somehow didn't fit his standards.

 _"_ _Let's just be friends, ok?"_ There might have been sincerity on his face as he'd said it, palms open in surrender, but instead of relief she felt a bitter twang of disappointment on her lips instead.

 _"_ _It's fine,"_ she'd retorted, an iciness to her voice that she couldn't recognise, _"you don't have to pretend."_

She'd walked away quickly before he'd had a chance to respond, and that had been it for a few days. He'd kept away from her, avoiding her like she avoided him. And it would have been fine, they would have been fine if Charles hadn't decided Reed was the best thing since sliced bread and insisted on joining them for lunch.

 _"_ _So are you ladies seeing anyone special,"_ Charles had boomed, clearly hoping for a negative answer from Reed but directing the question at both of them.

Across the table from her Jackson had shot her a quick glance before concentrating hard on the fries in front of him. Under the table Reed had kicked her shin hard enough for her to choke on her soda, silently demanding she take one for the team and answer Charles.

 _"_ _Um.. nope, no one special,"_ she had mumbled, feeling Jackson's eyes on her.

 _"_ _Keeping your options open in case you get another chance at some Jackson action?"_ Charles' tone had been light and playful, giving no indication that he knew anything at all.

Jackson had assured her that their drunken night had stayed their secret, and Charles could have easily drawn his own conclusions, but none of this was lunch conversation as far as she had been concerned and she had felt anger bubbling up under her skin.

 _"_ _Maybe I'm just not interested in syphilis action,"_ she had snapped, meeting Jackson's eyes across the table. His eyes had been cold and hard, but there had been a challenge in there too.

 _"_ _Whoa, ok little lady, sorry I asked,"_ Charles had laughed, dropping the subject like a hot potato. _"How about you, Reed?"_

 _"_ _Never gonna happen, Charlie,"_ Reed had sighed heavily, rolling her eyes as she pushed her chair back and getting up to leave.

 _"_ _Just drop it, man,"_ Jackson had snapped, throwing his fork down on his unfinished plate of lunch with a loud clatter. _"She's obviously not interested, don't waste your breath on someone who can't even be bothered to be polite to you."_

He'd glared at her as he spat his last words out, his chair scraping against the floor as he rushed out of his seat, leaving her gaping at his disappearing back. She had mumbled out an excuse about not being hungry anymore to Charles, but it had been the truth. She hadn't missed the brief flash of hurt in Jackson's eyes, but she hadn't been able to explain it either. She'd pushed that thought right to the back of her mind as soon as it had entered her head and decided right there and then that Jackson Avery was an incurable asshole.

* * *

Watching his back as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths makes anger wash over her again, unchecked and boiling, at this guys _nerve_. She sees the privilege, the cocksure attitude, the overbearing behaviour and she wonders how she ever ended up in a bed stark naked with this man, with matching tattoos that are still a mystery to her. How she ever found anything redeeming about his personality she will never know. Sure, the eyes and the face and the body on him make a nice first impression, but she can't even let herself think about that anymore because he even _breathes loudly_.

She sighs heavily, tossing and turning on the small cot, the blanket still impossibly scratchy and uncomfortable. _Sleep, April._ She tries again. Tries to get her brain to run around in endless circles about how much Jackson Avery gets on her every last nerve. Tries to get her brain to stop sending her flashes of dark skin stretched across hard muscle. Tries to get her brain to focus on anything but. Behind her his breathing his heavy and slow, almost rhythmic, almost soothing.

When she wakes up to the sound of her pager hours later, he's gone, and so is her anger.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Guys, I'm SO sorry for how long its taken me to update this, seriously. I started a new job and I got swallowed up, that's all. But I hope to be able to update a bit more often, to take you through hiatus:) Hope the slightly longer chapter helps!**

 **As always, please let me know your thoughts, I love all your comments! x**

* * *

She never considered herself a competitive person. Tenacious, sure. Hardworking, definitely. Throwing people under the bus to get a leg up, never. Until she found herself scrambling to prove herself all day long as an intern she never felt the need to win anything. Until she found herself surrounded by people who would take any opportunity to shine at her cost, she never felt the need to grow sharp elbows. Until she had to face that self-assured smile and those eyes gleaming with challenge, she never felt the need to see defeat on another person's face so badly.

"Hang another unit!"

She barely recognises her own voice, steady, confident and commanding over the quiet buzz of the trauma room. Her hands move quickly and with purpose over the poor man on the gurney, checking vitals, scanning for obvious trauma, while her mind races for possible internal damage. Behind her she can feel Dr Ginsburg's eyes resting heavily on her, watching her every move.

"Sir, do you feel any pain anywhere other than in your left leg?"

There is a jagged piece of bone protruding from the patient's lower leg, the angle sick and unnatural, blood oozing slowly from the wound when she lifts the compress carefully. The man's lips tremble with what she hopes is shock, struggle to find words, his head straining against the c-collar.

"Please don't move your head, sir," Jackson butts in, shooting her a glare that feels a lot like annoyance, setting all the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. "We need to get him to CT."

He gives her a hard glare before looking to Dr Ginsburg for confirmation, confident as ever, cocky even in his obvious belief that a confirmatory nod from their attending is a mere formality. He's so used to being right, she thinks, so used to going unchallenged. It sets a fire in her gut, makes her jaw jut out in defiance.

"We need to set the leg first or he could lose it," she grits out between her teeth, directing her hushed argument straight at Jackson without even looking to her superior for encouragement. Her eyes meet his over the patient, clear blue glinting hard and steady, challenging her wordlessly. His eyelashes flutter briefly, startling her slightly, breaking her concentration for a fraction of a second.

"Good call, Dr Kepner." Dr Ginsburg's raspy voice brings her back to herself and she can't help a small triumphant smile spread across her lips.

"Page ortho," she commands the trauma nurse, tamping down on the bubbling jubilation growing inside as Jackson clenches his jaw and furrows his brow, eyes blinking furiously as he backs away from the patient.

"You're needed next door, Avery," Dr Ginsburg continues, seemingly oblivious to the power struggle in front of him. If he is aware, he's probably seen it a hundred times over, interns climbing over each other for recognition is hardly new. "MVA trauma coming in."

She shouldn't feel so righteous as she does seeing the defeat on his face, the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes. She should't feel so elated at his sunken shoulders or the frustrated hand that runs over his head. She shouldn't be so damn happy that he was wrong, more than she's happy she was right. She shouldn't be, but she is. She feels a slight tinge of guilt at her pettiness, but the ortho consult arrives and she gets to help reset a compound fracture so any and all thoughts of Jackson Avery are pushed out of her mind.

* * *

Hours later the ER slows down, but she is still high on her victory. She's been on for 13 hours but she can hardly feel it, floating through the dark corridors towards the on-call room. Her patient is stable, no internal injuries and the leg is set for now awaiting a longer surgery tomorrow, which she gets to scrub in on. There is a warm glow deep in her gut that she's struggled to find since she came to Seattle, a contentment of sorts that she made the right choice after all, moving so far away from her family and everything she knew. It buoys her, makes her step bouncy and makes her almost miss the clattering of metal against metal as she passes a dark, abandoned corridor.

At first she's not sure what she's looking at. There is an upturned linen trolley on the floor, messed up sheets, rolled up bandages and some gauze pads randomly scattered across the grey linoleum floor. Slumped on the floor, leaning against the wall and almost covered entirely by the darkness is a grown man, sobbing quietly.

She knows before her eyes can confirm it, she knows with the entire fibre of her being that it's Jackson. She hesitates for a moment, stopped dead in her tracks. April Kepner of Moline, Ohio, would never walk past someone who might need a kind word. April Kepner, surgical intern would never ignore someone's pain. April Kepner, human being would never not go over to her mostly infuriating, but clearly upset colleague, even if every part of her still remembers the sneers, the arrogance, the humiliating damn waffle on both their asses.

She slinks down to the floor next to him without a word, watches him carefully as he buries his head between his knees and covers his neck with big, bruised hands. She doesn't say anything as he shifts slightly away from her, doesn't open her mouth as he struggles to control the sobs leaving his throat. She doesn't move an inch as he rocks slowly back and forth on his feet in some sort of self soothing motion. She just sits next to him as his breathing slows and his sniffles gradually disappear.

"I lost a patient," he finally says, voice cracked and raw.

He doesn't elaborate or explain, he doesn't have to. There is always a first time for everyone, the one that sticks, the one each of them will probably remember for their entire career. Hers is still fresh in her mind, only a few weeks old, a name, an age, a family forever burned into her core, the one that will never leave her.

She nods slowly, even though his face is buried in his hands and he can't see her. She hesitates again, pauses to consider breaking the physical barrier they have put up between them, hand hovering over his knee before she makes a decision and lets it land. He twitches under her touch, but he doesn't pull away. He rubs furiously at his eyes, takes a few deep breaths before letting his hands fall. He looks ruined, and that guilt is back, the one that told her this thing between them is petty.

"I'm sorry," she says simply, and she's not just talking about his patient.

He looks at her, eyes red rimmed and small, and she didn't know how used to those clear blue sparklers she'd gotten until he looked at her like this, broken and messed up.

"It's not your fault."

She swallows hard but she can't tear herself away from his gaze, from the blown pupils, the bloodshot whites, the heaviness of his stare. He opens his mouth to say something again, but she interrupts him before the words can come out.

"You know what usually helps?" her voice is a little thicker than she would like, but she makes up for it with an almost uncomfortably wide smile. "Breakfast."

"Breakfast?" his eyes flicker over her mouth for a fraction of a second, but quickly shoot up as she gets up from the floor.

"Breakfast," she confirms, offering him a hand. "I was going to just crash here until the next shift, but you look like you need it, and I know a place."

"It's 3 am," he points out, but takes the offered hand, his one burning hot in hers.

"Come on."

She gives him a small, determined smile and that warm glow is back in her gut, making her ponytail bounce behind her as they leave the hospital together.

* * *

The diner is as quiet as you'd expect in the middle of the night, but there are a few stragglers perched up on the stools by the counter and one or two booths are already occupied as they enter. She slides across cream coloured leather to sit across from him, and she's pleased to see that some of the darkness has already lifted from his eyes.

He scans the place curiously, a small frown occasionally settling on his forehead as he takes the somewhat shabby diner in. It's as if a thought strikes him but it's too fleeting to put words to, so he gives up and focuses on the menu instead. A slow smirk suddenly crosses his lips, but he keeps staring at the menu as if he is sharing a private joke with himself.

"What?"

"Nothing," he assures her, but the smirk stays on his lips as the waiter comes to take their order.

They both order waffles, him with bacon and a side of home fries, her with blueberries and whipped cream. His eyes flicker up as she orders, but he drops his gaze as soon as she notices. The waiter shoots her a strange look, eyebrows slightly raised, but says nothing as he hobbles off to the kitchen with their order.

The lights in the diner are suddenly a little too bright, and the day a little too long for her, so she slumps back in her seat, too tired to question the strange atmosphere. She is too tired to try and figure out what is going on in Jackson's head, too worn out to even try to raise any sort of suspicion against him.

"Did you know waffles are my favourite food?" he looks at her expectantly, almost triumphantly, smirk widened into a big grin.

It's like a key turning in a lock inside her, because she did know that. She doesn't know why she knows that, but all of a sudden she is certain about this one random fact about him.

"I do know that," she says, smiling against her own better judgement, because somehow this is a happy memory she just can't place.

Something bubbles to the surface and she tries to grasp at it, tries to hold on to it, to solidify it, but memories are slippery and the more she tries the harder it becomes. She tries to use her logic instead, and the waffles that are being placed in front of them makes her consciousness drift towards the tattoo permanently marking her ass.

"Do you think this is why we got the waffle tattoos?" her voice is a little incredulous and a lot unsure, but she can see on his face that he remembers something, even if it is just a fragment.

"Aw, you guys actually got the tattoos?" the waiter laughs heartily, round eyes crinkled into a big grin.

Her head whips around to take him in, this stocky man, his wiry moustache and rounded belly making him seem familiar but she can't quite place him. She's not seen him in here before, she always comes during the day and he doesn't work the day shift, this much she's sure of. But he clearly knows her, knows them, and it's got her stuck on all the dead ends she's tried to go down before.

"Um, yeah we did," Jackson helpfully answers, even though he looks every bit as confused as she feels.

"Good for you guys, you really love waffles, huh?" The older man laughs such a hearty laugh, light and bubbling, his eyes filled with such mirth they threaten to spill over into tears.

And then it clicks. He clicks into place and turns the lock, opening the door wide open to one of those dead ends. Her eyes widen as she remembers drunkenly stumbling through the doors and declaring to everyone who cared to listen and even some that didn't that this place made the best goddamned waffles in all of Seattle. She remembers an overly enthusiastic Jackson agreeing with her, she remembers feeding him bites from her plate, remembers him licking his fingers clean after feeding her from his and remembers leaning over to finish the job for him. She remembers eager discussions over waffles being the ultimate food, both for breakfast and dinner and every meal in between, and them deciding wholeheartedly and with aplomb that it should really be a food group of its own.

"Oh my god," she huffs out, hands clasping her bright red cheeks and wide eyes staring at Jackson in horror. "These are the best waffles in the whole damn world."

Her voice is thin as she presses out the words that she now can't believe she ever managed to forget.

"So good I'm gonna tattoo it on my ass," he finishes for her, smirk slightly broken and frown firmly placed between his brows.

"Tequila should be illegal," she moans, unable to look him in the face any longer, because she still can't place all the pieces to this puzzle, but the ones she has managed to place makes her want to not find the rest.

"You're right though," he muses, as he attacks the offending waffles in front of him. "Breakfast really does help."


End file.
